Each performance took a tiny strip off of your credibility. It happened so slowly, you didn’t really notice straight away. The money was good and middle class, middle aged soccer moms the world over have chosen you to provide their dinner party ambiance instead of Michael Bolton or that pesky Josh Groban. So what if the talent you once had has now been irrevocably compromised by the string of non-threatening tracks you sold your soul to record. Brenda and her girlfriends from Weight Watchers love you. So does Marjorie and all the ladies from First Baptist Church on Main Street. After all you looked so handsome earnestly over-emoting in your Armani suit and what woman wouldn’t swoon at the sound of a mysterious Latin accent?
After the microphone makes an appearance, it’s game over. You will be sucked into a vortex from which no one has escaped unscathed. Microphones are the Pandora’s box of the operatic world. Why not, you innocently reasoned? I’ll just try it once. The mic will connect me to my public; make the art seem more accessible. How else am I going to project in Madison Square Garden? It all seemed so reasonable at the time. The sweetest apple is the one that is already rotting.
Miss Mussel Presents: How To Euthanise Your Career in 3 Easy Steps.
Step One: Shameless self-promotion on a long-running game show watched by millions of Brendas and Marjories. The performance is cringeworthy even by your own elastic standards but since your credibility is now hanging by a thread, it doesn’t much matter.
Step Two: Being hawked by Guy Smiley and his assistant on the Home Shopping Network. The needle is being readied.
Step Three: A contract with TimeLife Music…the barbituates slowly circulate through your veins and you go out, not with at bang but with whimper.